


An Absence Of Lightning

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt Thor (Marvel), M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 18:04:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21414376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Post-IW Au-ish fic where Bruce reminds Thor that he has people who are there for him when he's struggling.Written for ThorBruceWeek 2019 - Day 4: Storm / Breath
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Thor
Comments: 3
Kudos: 41
Collections: Thorbruce Week 2019





	An Absence Of Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger Warnings:** Depression, Alcoholism, Violence (imagined but still semi-graphic)  
\----  
Written on the tumblr asgardianbrucebanner

The green grass of Norway is speckled with the dew of the spring. It seeps through the cuffs of Thor’s sweatpants as he makes his way up to the top of the hill. It’s a familiar spot, one he has visited many times over the course of the year. 

Looking out from the cliffside, at the grey line of the horizon across the sea, Thor sighs. He doesn’t know why he still bothers. 

At first he had felt like perhaps he was seeking guidance. Sitting upon the same stone Odin had said his goodbyes to him from, an illusion of connection with his lost loved ones - as complex as that love was sometimes - washing over him. 

That illusion fails to grip him any more. The rock is just a rock and the empty air does not speak to him with his father’s voice. Nor does it often become his mother’s or Heimdal’s, both of whom he has also spoken to in his grief and in need of comfort. 

Comfort now is sought in the quiet of a bottle - or seven - and the overindulgence of food, and sleep and any other vice that will make these wretched emotions go away... even if they do come back tenfold when he looks at the state of himself afterwards. 

He doesn’t sit on the rock today. Instead he paces in front of it, thinking about his failures. He is no longer the proud warrior prince that he once was. He is no longer the king of Asgard, it’s very foundations destroyed by an apocalypse that he had catalysed. 

_ Asgard is not a place. It is a people. _

“Yes, well, the people are gone too,” he mutters into the rim of his beer bottle, washing the ghost of Heimdal’s calm voice away with the last few drops. The bottle joins the other’s he has discarded this week, over by the rock.

In his mind he pictures his mother scolding him, much like she had when he was a child who made messes with the toys he was given, leaving them scattered across the floor for the servants to find later. 

What simpler times those had been. Their family whole, he and Loki living in blissful ignorance of their father’s atrocities and the secrets that he kept from them. 

There had been so many secrets. 

Secrets like his sister, whom Odin had left for Thor to deal with alone. 

Which had led to the destruction of Asgard.

Which had led to them fleeing into space. 

Which had left them sitting ducks for Thanos to pick off, had left Thor kneeling uselessly on the sidelines as half of his people - half of Asgard - had been slaughtered without hesitation, without mercy - 

Suddenly, he spins on his heel, leaning towards the edge of the cliff, looking out to where he had last seen his father’s essence before it had disappeared into the wind, and he screams. 

It’s a painful, raw, terrible sound that speaks of ungrieved losses and unavenged wounds. It’s long and it’s unbridled and when his voice finally gives out he switches to other means of physical outburst. Throwing out his arms and spreading them wide above his head - as if bracing to hold the weight of the sky - he lets wild lightning crackle at his fingertips. Two vicious bolts shoot out from his hands, spreading out from either side of him like skeletal wings of pure energy, singeing the grass at his feet and striking the air around him. With an effort he throws his arms forwards and both bolts go soaring off of the cliff face, into the water below. A wave crests over the spot where they disappear and then the water continues on with in its gentle rolling towards the shore. 

Breathing heavily, he allows less than a second to pass before he begins to summon another bout of energy, this time channeling both hands into a larger bolt. It shoots off into the sky, disappearing into the black clouds that have gathered overhead, which remain undisturbed by it. As if nothing had happened. 

Observing this only seems to send him into a more frenzied state of emotional turmoil. 

Over and over again he lashes out at the clouds, eyes burning from tears that he does not notice falling, skin burning from sheer loss of control. He doesn’t know how far his lightning can travel. Surely not much further than the edge of the Earth’s atmosphere. But still, with each bolt he hurls he fantasises about them breaching the void of space, stretching out across the cosmos and striking Thanos in whatever hole he has retreated into. He imagines them pinning him into the walls of it, sizzling the flesh of his face, his hands, burning up that infernal gauntlet and taking Thanos’ victory with it. And Thanos would scream and cry out for help but Thor would keep him there in a constant state of agony, so that he may experience a fraction of the pain he has inflicted upon Thor’s people. Maybe then he would understand. Repent even. But Thor would show him no mercy because it’s too late for that, what is done cannot be undone. He has failed himself. 

His hopes for peace are dead. 

His allies and his friends are dead. 

Heimdall. Mother. Loki. 

Dead.

Thor collapses to his knees, head bowed. He is ragged in every way possible, from the state of his hair to the harshness of each breath. 

He doesn’t get up again for a very long time. 

...

When the truck arrives in the coastal ruins of a town that is slowly being rebuilt into the beginnings of New Asgard, Valkyrie is already there, waiting. A punch in the arm is her way of greeting him. 

“How’s it going, Angry Girl - Valkyrie?” he laughs, swinging a much larger fist back at her, which she dodges with ease. It’s almost like the beginning of one of their playful sparring sessions in Sakaar, except this time she doesn’t do any fancy slide maneuvers or try to pin his arm up behind his back. 

Instead her face turns somber. 

“It could be better.” 

She points a finger up towards the hill, where the cliffs drop off into a roiling sea. Above it, a focused spiral of dark clouds have gathered, casting the entire area in darkness. The rain that falls is oddly sparse, with gaps between the drops that might even be big enough to avoid, if you had the reflexes for it. But the drops that fall fall large and fierce, as if they’re being shot out of a gun. One lands on his shoulder and indeed it does sting, if briefly.

It’s not a natural storm. 

“How long has it been like this?” 

“Three days.” Valkyrie’s mouth is a thin line. “I’ve been trying to organise the rebuilding as best I can, but the conditions aren’t ideal for outdoor work. We’re still recovering.” 

Bruce’s expression softens with sympathy. There had been a large gap between "The Snap" (as the remaining media had coined as a nickname for the instantaneous devastation that had struck half of the universe not so long ago) and the Asgardians reaching Earth. Bruce couldn't even begin to imagine what kind of ordeal they’d had in between then and now, until he had seen the the state of their wounded several weeks ago. That gave him a pretty clear image. 

“So what do you want me to do? I can move some of those lumber piles for you easily enough. Orrr -” 

“Actually… I was hoping you would speak with him.”

“Oh,” Bruce stops looking around for things to do and focuses his eyes back on her. In her own eyes he sees several sleepless nights worth of stress and worry and, after a moment's hesitation, he nods. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” Her shoulders sag in relief, just for a second, before she straightens up again, hefting a large net over her shoulder and setting off towards the docks. “I’ll be over there if you need me.” 

Bruce nods his thanks once last time, before the soft smile that he had been holding on his face drops and he looks towards the hills. 

…

“Thor?” 

Over the wash of the waves beating against the cliffside and the rumbling of thunder that somehow seems to have no lightning source, Thor almost misses the soft call of his name behind him. 

How can someone who has become so large and strong still be so quiet?

He knows who it is, of course. Thor would know his voice anywhere. It hasn’t changed that much since he underwent his... ‘metamorphosis’. His ‘fusion’ or whatever other fanciful words Bruce had used to try to explain it over the phone. Maybe slightly deeper than it was but that could all be in Thor’s mind. 

He doesn’t turn to face Hulk - Bruce - (he’s still getting used to which name he refers to him as) when the other sits down next to him. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. He’s drunk and he smells of dirt and ale. He’s been up on this cliff for three days without food or sleep. Something about his outburst had exhausted him too much for him to care about participating in such trivial routines like showering or exercise. And it’s not even that he doesn’t want to do them. He just doesn’t feel like doing them. 

Those should be the same thing, he thinks. But they’re not. Like many things lately, it’s complicated. 

“Do you mind if I join you?” 

Thor shrugs. Now that Bruce is here he sees no point in convincing him to go away. It's feels like it has been a long time since they'd shared company together like this. 

Much longer since they'd done it with anything other than shared misery and defeat. 

There are no words spoken between them for the first few minutes. Thor’s curiosity - and perhaps boredom - eventually gets the better of him and he sneaks a glance at Bruce from out of the corner of his eye. 

It still sends him reeling how different he looks now. Not quite like the Doctor Bruce Banner because Bruce has never been tall. Or, more notably, green. But it’s not Hulk either. The lines in his brow and at the bridge of his nose are softer, while laughter lines around the eyes have become much more pronounced. 

Large and intimidating in size that he is, the way he sits, crossed legged on the ground, hands in his lap, head tilted up with his eyes to the sky, reminds Thor of a child. One that waits patiently, content to observe its surroundings and find wonder in all manner of things that would be lost on so many adults. 

Thor envies him. Envy for the chance to start again, to go back to that wonder after all that has happened.

And then he feels guilty for it. And then somewhere, deep down, he knows that he's happy for Bruce. All forms of happiness lie deep within him now. But it’s there, a dying ember of the last thing Thor can will himself to care about. 

“Quite a storm.” Bruce speaks up suddenly, as if he knows that Thor is looking him, even as he keeps his eyes on the clouds. When he does finally turn his face towards Thor, there is warmth and kindness in it. “Haven’t seen one like it in… well. Ever, really." He pauses for barely a second and Thor imagines that he tenses, although he isn't able to tell from the serenity still masking Bruce's true feelings. It would seem that that has stuck with him too. "You must be pretty upset.” 

Thor laughs. It’s cold and bitter, filled with spite that isn’t really directed at Bruce but rather seems that way because Bruce is the only other person present to hear it. “Upset?” He braces his hands on the floor to push himself up into a less slumped sitting position and his fingers brush the glass of one of the empty bottles. He grasps it around the neck, squeezing so hard that it might have burst if he hadn’t thrown it suddenly as far as he could over the cliffs edge. “I’m… I’m not upset.” 

His voice sounds high and frantic, even to his own ears. He growls, frustration increasing because of it. “No I’m just tired... And angry... And thinking about how, for the entirety of my life, I thought I was destined to become the king of a peaceful kingdom, one that was well loved by the realms that it protected. Except that that was all a _lie_ -" He spits the word out as if it were a bitter glob of blood on his tongue - "and my father was actually a selfish realm conquering bastard_, _who - just by the way - was hiding an evil sister from me my entire life, and because of that I ended up a failure with half of my people _dead_, sitting on a _muddy hill for three days_ -” He takes a breath and decides to cut to the point. “No, no, I am not upset." He catches his breath again and then slams a fist into the grass. Specks of mud splash up his arm and cake the sleeve of his shirt but he has little concern for that. "I’m furious," he finishes, lowly. Yet, even as he says it, the anger is fading as quickly as it came and he turns away from Bruce to sinks back into the waiting arms of his grief and apathy.

Bruce just shuffles closer and nods. “Tell me about it.” When Thor scoff, he raises a placating hand, expressions more pleading and words completely genuine. “In all seriousness. Thor. I want you to talk to me.” 

The word frees itself from Thor's throat before he can even think to swallow it.

“_Why_?”

This clearly surprises Bruce. He looks taken aback, hurt even, and visibly has to collect himself before he speaks again, choosing his words carefully. 

“Because… it hurts more to be alone. And I know that it won’t feel that way to you right now, but it does.” He shuffles closer to Thor again, keeping just enough distance that he doesn’t quite touch him. Thor doesn’t back away, just listens with a blank expression, slumping once more against the rock. “All you want to do is run away into a mountain somewhere. You don’t have to face the judgement or the pity of the people that you love in there, right?” There’s something in his voice that changes just a fraction with that question, but he returns himself to the softer tone much too quickly for Thor to work up the energy to figure out what it means. “Believe me, you won’t feel better. Not really. You just... sort of swap it all out for loneliness. And then it’ll just come back, later, when you have too much time alone with your thoughts.” 

Every line in Bruce’s body is kind and inviting, like Thor could settle himself into Bruce’s arms and cry out the frustrations that he’s been suffering for three days and longer, and Bruce wouldn’t judge him for it one bit. It wars with his shame of being found in such a broken state as this to see, not pity in those green-flecked brown eyes, but empathy. 

Bruce continues, “I know that without someone there to stop you, you’d go off and hide in those mountains. So… I want you to know that there are other options. You have people here for you. I don’t just mean me, because, uh, if you don’t want to talk to me that’s okay -” 

“Bruce,” Thor cuts him off and Bruce goes silent, looking at him expectantly. It breaks Thor’s heart to see the glint of hope in his eyes. He can’t be what Bruce wants. And he wants to be, he really does. But...

“Thank you. I… have not been feeling myself, lately. A lot of things have changed,” he admits and his voice is softer, less filled with bitterness and more with defeat. “I don’t know if I will ever be myself again. But I appreciate your patience and your concern.” 

Bruce is very silent for a moment. Then: 

“Can I walk you back home?” 

Thor assesses himself internally and decides that, while not better, he is feeling well enough to move away from this place now. And he would appreciate the support.

He braces a hand against the rock, groaning as his aching joints are stretched out as he stands. When he finally straightens up, he finds himself feeling light-headed, and wobbles of his feet when he tries to step forwards. 

Immediately Bruce is at his side, gently putting his arm around Thor’s back so that he doesn’t end up tilting over and landing on his arse. Thor copies him, feeling smaller than he ever has when his fingers barely reach the centre of Bruce’s back. And he takes comfort in knowing that even as he leans his entire weight onto him, Bruce will stay stable and strong.

Gently, Bruce begins to lead him down the hillside, towards the outskirts of what is to become the Asgardian village, for now still merely a collection of derelict houses by the cliffs of Norway. They walk away from the rock that his father had died upon and the empty glass bottles that lie scattered around it.


End file.
